Just Before the Sun Slips
by Thehazeofdusk
Summary: Remy stares at the slipping sun, his eyes flashing crimson with new reflections of the Julians demise. Another body on the ever increasing pile of accidents and deaths he never meant to create. One-shot angst fic. Rated M for violence.


_I wrote this at like 3 am to vent and I ended up just running with it and turning it into a short one shot, so I apologise in advance for just how messy this is. I kinda like it though ;) _

_Warnings: Violence, Language, Potentially triggering? A whole damn load of good ol' angst._

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The sun just sorta kisses the edges of the roofs. Like some sorta gold dust or mirage, waiting to disintegrate at your touch. It's fading, right beneath the skyline so that the hazy, sultry purples and indigos of dusk can flirt with the moon and dance to the rhythm of jazz.

You could leap from building to building if you wanted to. Soar between the narrow alleys and taste the night air on your tongue. If you wanted.

But he can't taste it. For the first time, his tongue is too numb to taste the delectable tones of the city. Too dry in his throat to swallow, and too stiff to talk. The roof tops of New Orleans were ordinarily a comfort to him, his safe place. But as his legs grow as stiff and rigid as the flat concrete he sits on, his head tilted in surrender to the sky as he leans back on his hands, the skin on his palms itching from small stones, he realises he's never felt more alone.

He's making a conscious effort not to cry, but his body seems to be a separate entity from his mind, and the tears freely well up in his eyes and spill over the edges. It burns, and he can't see. He can't see the glow of the melting sunset as striking midnight blue begins to take its place in dyes of purple and pink.

He can see the blood. He can see it on his hands and he could hear it in Belladonna's scream. His body trembles and he can hear himself frantically shouting for Jean-Luc, a dead body hunched limply over his sword. Theres this pricking fear climbing up the back of his neck, and it crawls beneath his skin like a raving insect.

When was the last time he'd felt so scared?

He knows the answer, but doesn't dwell on it because it's just another drop of blood on the ever increasing scarlet stain painting his hands like a sick mural. He can't wash it off.

He'd tried. He really had.

Remy had staggered through the thieves mansion doors, disoriented and stunned, tripping his way in a state of extreme dissociation towards the nearest bathroom, before he'd heaved.

His stomach had violently and completely emptied itself in a matter of minutes, so he'd stumbled towards the sink and braced his hands either side of the lavishly decorated porcelain for support.

Remy couldn't breathe. His head was pounding, and his body was wracked in tremors which wouldn't stop, and his goddamn fucking bow tie was choking him like some sort of invincible hand which longed for vengeance. Shakily, he loosened his grip on the sink and started to tug at it, trying to pull the black tie away with the scrabbling desperation of a caged animal.

His eyes were puffy and wild. He loathed the sight of them. He loathed the sight of himself and promptly looked away from the mirror so that he didn't start heaving again.

The tap turned on silently, shaking fingers and bloody finger prints were just a blur against the smooth, clean marble. He wished it had made some sort of noise, something that would interrupt the crushing and suffocatingly horrific quiet.

The tie fell to the floor and his hands moved for him. Cool water splashed on his face, beading at the ends of his hair and rolling down his skin.

He felt it brush against his lips, but it tasted far too salty to be coming from the taps. God he hated crying. He hadn't cried since Etienne.

Then he started washing. He washed his hands of the blood and watched as trails of crimson swirled and swirled like some sort of endless and torturous fun fair ride, before being promptly sucked into the plug hole and out of sight forever.

Except not really, not at all.

Because he could still smell the metallic tang of blood in the air, could still taste it on his tongue and feel it in his nose. He scrubbed and scrubbed at his hands monotonously, now raw and red with their own blood rather than that of another.

He couldn't breathe, and his lungs were collapsing but he didn't stop washing his hands. He couldn't, they had to be clean.

Then his mind seemed to come crashing back to his body and his legs could no longer support themselves as he collapsed to the floor and sobbed. His body wracked with cries of pain and pure terror at the idea that he'd yet again, yanked away someones life in cold murder. He clutched at his head and pulled at his hair, as if it could help pluck out the endless tape of Julians death.

He'd looked right into his eyes as the sword plunged deep through his body. He'd felt every tear of skin, every rip of muscle, and every crack of bone. Felt it like it was his own as the sharp metal pushed clean through the other side of him; impaled like it was nothing, like it was easy. He had been so close to Julian that Remy remembered feeling his startled breath against his face, and the beat of the blood soaking through his shirt, straight through to his own. Then Belladonna was screaming and he kept looking at Julien who seemed to be just as shocked as he was, slumping over Remy's sword and across his shoulder as if gripping for the final tendrils of his life.

Remy had not moved from the bathroom floor for a good few hours. He'd dried himself out, sat in torturous silence and watched a small fly whizz about the room in panic, bumping and bumbling until it finally fell, twitched, and lay still. He'd allowed his head to leave some place else, fade away into a timeless obscurity.

When he'd finally come to, he'd found himself on the rooftops of New Orleans, watching as the violets and rose hues of dusk began to shroud the sky like untouchable silk.

His head hurt, and his eyes stung but it wasn't enough. Jean-Luc had been cruel to him. Banishment wasn't enough. Marius seemed to be in a much more merciful mood when he'd announced in a thundering voice, wracked with grief: "A life for a life. Your boy for mine."

It had taken some negotiation to save Remy's life, but he wasn't so sure it was worth the trouble. He remembered, when he'd finally sought Jean-Luc out through the chaotic crowds, he'd seen his pokerface break just ever so slightly. No one else had noticed the slight upturn of his mouth and the discreet nod to Remy as if he were proud. _As if he were proud._

Remy couldn't breathe. So he watched the moon take the place of the sun, watched as the stars scattered in flecks of silver, and felt the gentle, spice scented winds caress lovingly at his pink cheeks and cracked lips.


End file.
